


To Everything, A Season

by kcstories



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-18
Updated: 2006-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-10 10:11:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcstories/pseuds/kcstories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mid-war, inadvertently separated from her friends, Hermione Granger seeks shelter from the snow and finds more than she bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dead Of Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or anything you recognise from the books (or films). It all belongs to JK Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Inc., Warner Bros., and any other entities involved.  
> Notes: This tale can be considered AU and is set post-HBP/Mid-war (it was written before DH came out, too). Eventual Hermione/Tom Riddle (with some subtle Harry/Draco in the background--blink and you'll miss it.)  
> Warnings: Alternate Universe, mention of off-screen Major Character Deaths (not Tom, Hermione, Harry or Draco) and Minor Character Deaths, OOC, Slash, Violence, Second-person narrative (if you feel that needs a warning) and an overabundance of Italics and parentheses.

It's a small cottage in a meadow, and if this were another day, under different circumstances, you might appreciate its picturesque beauty.

(If you could see it properly, through the falling snow; If your eyes weren't watering uncontrollably, and your nose wasn't burning from the cold, and your fingers weren't tingling, all pins and needles that would eventually turn into numbness and then into raw pain, while you stood there wondering how you ever even got to this point.)

You clench your fists in the pockets of your cold, clammy robes and your thoughts drift to your friends again.

You haven't seen Harry, Ron, Ginny, Luna, Neville, or the others, in... - You're not sure _how_ long exactly, and you're far too tired to venture a realistic guess at the moment, but it feels like forever.

You wonder if any of them are still alive.

This war has already taken so many casualties, on both sides. It doesn't bear thinking about.

But yet, you do. You can't help yourself, because strategies and theories have always been your oxygen and you'd be even more lost without them than you are now.

You take a deep breath and swallow the lump in your throat.

A wave of panic and desperation threatens to drown you, but you won't let it.

(Not now. Not _yet_.)

You tell yourself that this is neither the time nor the place; that breaking down is _not_ an option; that people are counting on you; that the wizarding world still needs saving, and you may not be Harry Potter, but that doesn't make you completely useless, either (except, of course, that right now, you kind of _are_, but your intelligence doesn't necessarily render you immune to denial).

You shake your head and curse the boundless silence for supplying you with too much time to think and too little distraction from the damage your own mind can do to you, and you remember...

(Don't you?)

Ginny's piercing scream, coming from somewhere behind that big oak tree, just before you were separated from the rest of the group, soon to find yourself aimlessly wandering through a wintery hell.

You assume it actually happened, but you could be wrong. It's entirely possible that you imagined the whole thing, because every time you try to replay that afternoon's events in your head, some things don't quite add up.

You think it's all rather frightening. You had such a firm grip on reality once. You were the poster child of logic; the brightest witch of your age.

Funny how things change.

Now, your memories are fading fast, while familiar faces become a blur and the overwhelming whiteness of the landscape seems to be the only thing that's gaining in focus, its treacherous purity blinding you to everything else.

You think you may be losing your mind. You can almost feel it, the gradual dissolve of your sanity; the way your life is frozen, and rewritten in the snow, one particle at a time.

Some days, it feels as though your days at Hogwarts are just scenes from a different life, or a dream, or some bizarre film you hated passionately, and yet it ended up haunting you for days.

You shake your head, realizing you got side-tracked again.

(Pull yourself together! This just won't do!) 

You know you have to get to that cottage, before another blizzard comes.

You're not sure you could survive another one. 

(Wind and snow and merciless white whipping against your face, taking your breath away, trying to pull you down, pull you under, as you struggled and shivered and thought, just for a moment, that you were going to die, there and then, and it would have been ironic, upon reflection, if after all you'd been through, something as tedious as a snowstorm got you in the end.)

You move closer, slowly, staggering, because you haven't been able to walk properly for days.

Your legs ache, your feet hurt, you don't feel your fingers anymore, and you can't recall when or what your last meal was.

At least it should be warm in there, you reason, and even if it isn't, you'll gladly settle for dry, or simply a roof above your head.

You turn the doorknob, eagerly but not without care.

You're surprised when the door opens smoothly and soundlessly.

You hear the crackling of a fire and your head instantly fills with images of yellow and warm orange and many other things that (Thank Merlin!) are anything but _white_.

You step inside.

The living room is cozy and welcoming and encompasses everything you've craved for days, weeks, months - however long it's been now.

Suddenly, it dawns on you that you're not alone here.

A tall, dark-haired man is standing by the window. He has his back turned to you and you don't think he heard you come in.

You assume he's lost in thought, enthralled by the never ending white surrounding his safe haven.

You clear your throat, because it would be rude not to make your presence known.

When he finally turns around, you almost scream.

You'd recognize that face anywhere.

(A few months ago, Harry finally shared the Pensieve and showed you the old articles from the school paper, and you think you saw him once in your second year too, unless that's just your muddled mind playing dirty tricks on you again.)

You haven't a clue how Voldemort managed to lose the hideousness of his previous appearance, why he now looks like a twenty-something Tom Riddle, but you're not blind to the fact that he's rather handsome.

(And then you remember that someone, possibly you mother, once told you that the devil looks like a charming man. At the time, you were too young to understand what that meant, but you think you get it now.)

You feel cold again, despite the comfortable warmth of the cottage, and you wonder why the room is spinning.

"Good afternoon, Miss Granger," he says with a saccharine smile. "I've been expecting you."

Your hands tremble. You swallow hard.

You suppose it should be a choice between flight and fight now, but instead, you suddenly fall; and don't get up again for a long time.


	2. Awakening Of Spring

You don't know how long you've been asleep, but you're quite sure you don't want to get up yet. 

(No, not _yet_; Not while you're safe and warm, wrapped up in this cocoon of soft sheets and fading slumber.) 

Eyes closed, you can't see the sunlight, but you can certainly feel it. 

It streams through the windows, warming your face, and when you hear a chorus of twittering birds in the distance, you suddenly feel very compelled to find out for yourself what a lovely spring day this must be. 

(Spring?)

But wasn't it winter only a few moments ago, you wonder? Didn't your legs hurt? Weren't your fingers numb? Wasn't your nose raw and burning? Weren't you gasping for breath in the middle of a treacherous snowstorm?

Or was it all just a dream? 

(And wouldn't that be wonderful? It was just a ghastly nightmare, after all. Any minute now, your mother will be calling you down for breakfast. And there will be hot, sweet tea and warm milk and some of those blueberry muffins you like so much. And both your parents will be there; happy and healthy and _alive_. They _are_ alive, aren't they? They weren't killed during the first raid, after all; the one that reduced two entire villages to faceless piles of rubble, smoke and ashes. ) 

But at the end of the day, you're a smart girl and denial will only last you for so long.

Reality kicks in again, and it's chilling and grim, like the snow you remember; and the ruthless, relentless blizzard; and the never ending desolation, amidst miles and miles of endless white; and then, of course, _him_... . 

(Voldemort.)

You sit up with a start. 

Your head spins and your stomach churns and suddenly, you don't think you've ever known anything more daunting than a sunny bedroom in a pretty cottage, in a peaceful meadow, on a glorious spring day. 

You wonder where he is.

You ask yourself how you're still alive; and _why_. 

(Somewhere in the middle of it all, you also realize that you're wearing pyjamas and that the bed sheets are fresh and crisp, although you must have been here for ages.) 

You bite your lip. 

You don't want to think about what any of this means.

(But then you _do_ think that it's funny, how once upon a not-so-long ago, you used to believe you had all the answers. Now, you wouldn't even know which questions to ask anymore, or whether you'd even ask any at all; because someone should have told you too, should have warned you that books don't hold the key to all the wisdom in the world and that knowledge doesn't always get you where you want to be.)

The bedroom door opens. It looks heavy and solid, but it doesn't make a sound.

_He_ enters. 

You wonder why he's wearing Muggle clothing.

(You think it kind of suits him and then you think you shouldn't be thinking that about _him_ at all.) 

Your instincts tell you to run, but your fear keeps you frozen. 

(You're not even sure you could run if you tried. You've been in this bed for what feels like forever and your legs feel strange and numb and really, you wouldn't trust them to carry you as far as to the door.)

He beams you a smile. 

It only unsettles you further, not in the least because it seems genuine and warm. 

(You're well aware that Tom Riddle is neither.)

"Good morning, Miss Granger," he says. "Finally awake, I see." 

You open your mouth. You try to say something. 

Your attempt fails miserably.

(You've swallowed a desert and your tongue is made of sandpaper and your voice is far, far away and doesn't even feel like it's your own.) 

He hands you a glass of water. 

(He didn't conjure it. It had been on the nightstand all along. You used to be more observant about these things.) 

The drink tastes fresh and soothes your throat, and you're quite certain it must have been changed recently.

(Like the sheets, but you weren't going to think about that.)

He sits down in the chair next to the bed and watches you intently. 

You're positive he knows, just like you do, that you couldn't run if you tried, that you're trapped.

You wish you had your wand. You wish you had managed to master wandless magic. 

(Hermione Granger, of all people, shouldn't be this powerless!)

But there hadn't been time to learn. The war had come too soon; overwhelming in its ferocity.

(How quickly things had escalated after Dumbledore's funeral. You thought you had weeks, months, a year if you were very lucky, to prepare. Seven days later, Hogsmeade was burning.)

"Where I am?" you finally manage, sounding only vaguely like yourself. 

"Yorkshire," he replies; like that tells you anything at all.

"How long have I been here?" you ask.

"Sixty-seven days." 

You frown. (He actually kept count?)

"Why have you been taking care of me?" 

(You daren't ask about the details, but part of you still has to know the reason.)

He regards you with a sneer. "Would you have preferred to have been tossed back out into the snow, Miss Granger?"

You shake your head. 

(Then you notice, briefly, how the sunlight catches his hair, giving it a chestnut glow. You think he looks so young now and rather fetching and it's scary to think of him as anything other than a monster; so you tell yourself not to, and instead you wonder, how come he hasn't killed you yet?) 

"Am I some kind of hostage?" you ask, because that's the only plausible explanation that springs to mind.

(Where there is no heart, there can be no compassion, either.)

"That would be pointless, Miss Granger." He gives you enigmatic smile. "The war ended in February." 

(And you think you remember February. There was frost, and blood mingling with snow; and Luna was screaming at the dead children on the ground; and Malfoy was suddenly on your side; and the world turned on its axis and then you were lost and wandering, and you didn't think you'd ever see your home again.) 

A sudden dizziness overcomes you and you sink back against the pillow. 

"Who won?" you hesitantly ask. 

"No one," he replies. "And everyone." 

"How do you mean?" 

"Let's just say an inevitable ceasefire occurred when both parties ran out of soldiers." 

"Oh." 

You take a deep breath and resolve not to cry, while you're also infuriated at his misplaced humor, inappropriate sarcasm and complete lack of sensitivity.

(And you think of pointless deaths and tales of generations ago, of mud, and sea, and horrors hidden deep underneath fields now blooming with poppies.) 

"So why are you here?" you ask, struggling hard to keep your composure. 

"I was a fugitive, Miss Granger. Just like you." 

"Was that why you nursed me back to health?"

"Yes."

(Just for a moment, you feel a spark of your old fire returning. It's the brave, outspoken, Hermione from back at school, who's screaming inside your head now, raising her hand and stomping her feet, because no, Mister Riddle, that answer really won't suffice!)

"But I wasn't even on your side," you point out. "For that matter, I'm still not on your side."

Ten seconds of hesitation. You tell yourself they don't necessarily make him more human.

"There are no more sides, Miss Granger," he tells you. "There's only us now."


	3. Surrender Of Summer

The air smells of apples and orchards and innocence, and it reminds you of other summers, of long gone holidays spent in the South of France, when your parents were still alive, and you felt like you could twirl around in pretty dresses for days; hoping, and dreaming, and wishing, and never having to entertain the idea that without the darkness, all this light wouldn't even exist.

You used to think _he_ was the darkness.

Now, you're not so sure.

(You know you've been doubting a lot of things since you first got here.)

A few times, you asked him what happened back in February; what _really_ ended the war; where everyone went.

He never gave you a straight answer.

(Or any kind of answer, at all.)

Instead, he would curse, and mumble about a conspiracy, and Lucius Malfoy, and Malfoy's worthless son, and Harry Potter, and ancient relics, and regressional magic, and a plethora of other things that made no sense to you at the time, either by themselves or in any combination.

(And they _still_ don't.)

Then when he'd done rambling, he would just sit there, his head in his hands, looking utterly defeated.

One day, you were sure he would cry, and the very idea - the thought of you being able to do that to him, it almost broke your heart.

That was the day you finally stopped asking questions.

(You didn't want that kind of power, not anymore. And you can't recall when he stopped being your enemy, exactly, or when you started to care about his feelings; about _him_. But all of a sudden, you _did_, and now you _do_, and there's no turning back.)

You can feel him looking in your direction, so you lift your gaze.

You're both sitting beneath a giant oak tree, and it's kind of funny, you think, (it's sort of bloody hilarious, in some twisted, topsy-turvy way, isn't it?), that you're here, casually enjoying a picnic with the Dark Lord. 

(Even if you haven't thought about him in that capacity for a long time.)

His smile is intoxicating. It lights up his eyes.

You smile back. 

You put your novel down.

(There are so many books at the cottage, and whenever you run out of reading material, he always conjures up some more, but you haven't a clue where he gets it all from.)

He's reaching for you now, across the grass, and he's pulling you closer. 

He's never done anything like this before, or even touched you on purpose.

(Except when you were still recovering, and needed his help. On bad days, you weren't able to hold your cutlery, so he fed you your soup and cut up your vegetables, and it was frustrating at first, and embarrassing as hell, and sometimes you hated him for it, or maybe you just hated yourself, because Hermione Granger wasn't supposed to be so pathetic and _weak_! But then you realized it wasn't about humiliation. Eventually, you understood it wasn't about pity, either.)

You allow yourself be drawn into the circle of his arms, like you belong there.

You suppose you _do_, now.

(It's like it's always been him and you, and now and _here_; like your previous life was nothing but a dream, or scenes from a film you vaguely remember watching in a daze, before you finally fell asleep, halfway through.)

He kisses the top of your head.

You look up at him.

Something flickers across his face, like doubt or wonder. It's laced with tenderness, and you think that should surprise you, even now, but it _doesn't_.

You reach out and brush your thumb across his cheek.

He's still looking at you, not breathing a word, as if he's waiting for something, something he wants you to initiate.

(And you feel the sun on your face, and the breeze in your hair, and you wonder why everything smells of apples, because there are no orchards here, just grass, and trees, and flowers, and you, and him.)

He takes your hand, slowly and gently, giving you plenty of opportunity to pull away, should you want to. 

(You don't.)

He presses the lightest of kisses against your palm.

(And you wonder if this is seduction, and if you should be scared now, because this is unfamiliar ground and _you_'re uncharted territory, and neither Viktor nor Ron were ever able to make you feel _quite_ like this. Neither of them were capable of melting your heart, and sending your senses into overdrive with something as simple as a slight brushing of lips that was barely even _there_.)

You suppose he expects you to run now. 

You know that's what your former self would have done. You can practically hear the old Hermione; yelling at you; scolding you for your bad judgment.

Warning after warning rings through your head.

You will every single one of them into silence.

(And you send the self-righteous little bookworm back to her dull, colourless world of musty libraries, full of dust and cobwebs, with no fresh air, no space to breathe; just shelf after shelf, stacked with knowledge that gives you nothing and gets you nowhere.)

Here and now, everything is slow motion.

You can tell, he's waiting for something. 

(Truth be told, so are you.)

"Tom," you whisper. 

(It's not the first time you use that name, but it might as well be.)

There's longing in your voice, and just a hint of closure.

(You think to yourself, this is where doubt ends and trust begins.)

And you think he's beautiful, with his dark hair, those eyes of the greenest green, that handsome face and all the tiny, light freckles around his nose. 

(You notice them for the first time today, but then, you never really _looked_ before, did you?)

You stop hesitating, and you lean up to kiss him. 

When he responds, it's sweet and gentle, and not at all what you would have expected from someone like him.

(Not that you're complaining.)

He says quietly that he admires you and has done so for a long time. He tells you that you're one of the strongest people he knows, and that he wishes things could have been different before, and sooner.

You silence him with another kiss. 

This time, there's passion, and intensity, and promise, and you've never felt so breathless, or so _alive_.

Your head is spinning, and it makes you a little nervous, because you haven't _been_ with anyone yet; not really, not_properly_. 

(No, those hasty snogs with Ron don't count. They were all sloppy kisses and clumsy, over-eager, hands; and surely, your best friend should have had more respect for you, as well, than to just grope you like that?)

You wonder what it would be like, to make love with Tom.

And just for a moment, you're shocked at yourself, for being this forward, even in your own mind. 

(Your mother would have been furious.)

When you break apart again, he smiles, kisses your forehead, and holds you close against his chest.

You shut your eyes and settle into the embrace, nuzzling his neck. 

You're comfortable and warm (so warm), and you think you could stay here forever.

You stay for an hour.

Far on the horizon, the setting sun bathes the fields in red light.

Unexpectedly, your thoughts drift to blood, and a film you saw when you were nine. It had bunnies, an overgrown, eternally green hill, and an ominous sunset - not unlike the one you're witnessing now. 

(The old Hermione looks up from her book, just long enough to mockingly remind you that films are just fiction, and rabbits don't talk, and you may be on the verge of sleeping with the enemy, and perhaps she can see why you would _want_ to, but _honestly_, comparing real life to an animated children's film, _that just won't do, Granger!_)

This once, you think you can still agree with her.

Tom holds out his hand and helps you up. 

You walk back in silence, a few kisses stolen along the way.

He opens the cottage door for you.

Somewhere in the distance, a lone cricket chirps.

You wonder why that startles you, why it sounds like some kind of warning from a different world, but then you have to stop yourself from laughing.

(Sunsets don't bleed, and crickets don't shout out warnings, and there's nothing to be afraid of here - _is there?_)

"After you," Tom says with a dazzling smile.

Your heart leaps.

You nod and walk inside, still holding his hand.

It's the night that changes everything.


	4. Confrontation of Autumn

Outside, the leaves are falling.

The cottage lawn is a tapestry of colours; warm reds and rich browns and sunny yellows, with here and there, just a hint of green. 

You suddenly think of bonfires, and how you miss them. 

(Or perhaps it's just your childhood that you miss, and your parents, because you always get so nostalgic this time of year.)

You can sense him behind you, entering the room, as you continue to stare out of the window.

It's funny, you think, how you're so attuned to each other now. 

You never expected it would be this way; not with anyone; not even with Ron when you were still dating; and least of all with him.

He comes closer, wraps his arms around you. 

You feel his lips brushing your ear; his warm breath against your cheek as he exhales.

"I'll conjure up some more wood for the fireplace later," he whispers. "It's getting chilly."

"Hm," you murmur, closing your eyes and leaning back against him.

The days are getting colder, while the nights are getting longer, and you know it'll be winter soon. 

Part of you dreads seeing the snow again, but deep down inside, you know you'll be fine.

(Because you're in love, and you're happy, and you're with him. You haven't felt this safe in a long time.)

"What are you thinking about?" he asks in a whisper.

"Just us and you," you say. 

He smiles in your hair. "Sometimes, my darling girl, I do believe you think too much." 

You turn around and you kiss him.

(You were lost when your parents died; lost, and desperate, and drifting. Now you know exactly where you belong, and with whom. You think you could stay here forever, and perhaps you will.)

A loud crash downstairs abruptly shatters the silence, destroys your sense of safety, and crushes your feelings of peace.

(Your heart is in your throat. Your breath hitches. And you're thinking - not here, not now, not _again_!)

"Wait here," he whispers, and he reaches for his wand.

You shake your head. 

You're not letting him face this alone, whatever the danger is.

(You wish you still had _your_ wand, but you lost it last winter; somewhere amongst merciless blizzards and blinding snow.)

Together, you descend the stairs.

"Stupefy!" a determined voice screams from below.

Before you can do anything, before you even get the chance, Tom is already falling.

(and falling, and falling, and falling.)

He finally lands on the parquet floor with a dull thud. 

The sound chills you to the bone.

The sight makes you want to scream in horror.

(He's unconscious, and he's bleeding.)

"Hermione?" It's a voice from the past.

You turn around, glaring daggers.

Even if you hadn't recognized the voice, you would have known that face anywhere, even after all this time. 

He looks a little older, and a lot thinner.

(Then again, to some extent, don't you all?)

You're tempted to walk over and slap him. 

Instead, you shout. "Harry Potter, how _could_ you?!"

You don't care that he's your friend.

No, you correct yourself, that's what he _used_ to be.

(In another life, when you were a different person; before the war, before the snow, and before you fell in love.)

In one swift movement, you bend down, grab Tom's wand, aim it squarely at Harry's chest, and cast the hex; the very first that comes to mind.

(Remus Lupin taught it to you, just before all hell broke loose. "They'll be after you, Miss Granger," he'd said. "You're one of the most powerful among the students, _and_ you're a Muggleborn. I'm sure you're at the top of their list. Remember these words, and remember them well.")

In front of you, Harry Potter slumps down to the floor.

(And as he does, he reminds you of a rag doll, and you almost laugh, but in the end, you _don't_, because, really, this isn't _funny_; and Tom's just lying there, and he's bleeding.)

You'll check on him soon. 

Once you're done here. 

(No, you're not done yet.)

Harry didn't come alone.

You now find yourself standing face to face with Draco Malfoy.

To his credit, he instantly drops his wand, and holds his hands up in defeat.

This day is certainly full of surprises, you think.

(But you don't laugh, because it's still not funny, and Tom remains motionless on the floor, and bleeding.)

"Can I see how Harry is?" Malfoy asks, grave concern written all over his face.

For the very first time, in all the years you've known the stuck-up Slytherin, you notice a profound similarity between the two of you; one that has nothing to do with studies, or books, or a relentless drive to excel at everything you touch. 

You've both fallen for the enemy. You've both defected; in a fashion.

For the briefest of moments, it crosses your mind that you could easily kill him now; pay him back for everything he's done to you - and to Ron, over the years; and then you could Obliviate Harry as well, and no one would ever know. 

(But you're not a murderer, are you? And besides, you don't see the point. You're through with the war, and you're sick of the bloodshed.)

The Malfoy mask has fallen, you think.

(And that's not nearly as amusing as it could be, either.)

You nod, but first you Accio his wand. 

"Sorry," you say, without any regret at all. "I don't care whose side you're on _now_, Malfoy. I still wouldn't trust you as far as I could kick you."

While he tends to Harry, you finally kneel down next to Tom. 

"It's alright, love," you whisper, and kiss his forehead.

You cast a healing spell.

(And you remind yourself to thank Professor Lupin for that one too, if you ever see the man again.)

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice how Harry scrambles to his feet.

He's watching you too (you can tell), but you're prepared, waiting for him, ready to counter the next spell, should he strike a second time.

He doesn't.

Instead, he speaks in a shaky voice. "If I see him again, Hermione, I'm afraid I _will_ have to kill him."

"Then stay the hell away from our home, Potter!" you snarl. "Or I may be forced to kill _you_ first!"

(You're almost surprised at how cold and bitter your own voice sounds. But then you're not, because who does he think he is, anyway, to barge in here, and try to take away your happiness; take away the only one who's ever made you feel so alive?)

Harry looks devastated, defeated, worse than he did when he'd just lost Sirius.

You think it serves him right.

(No one hurts the man you love.)

It's Malfoy who speaks next. 

"Come on, Harry," he says softly, taking your former best friend by the arm. "I think it would be best if we left now."

"Here," you say, and you throw Malfoy's wand back at him.

This time, you _are_ laughing, because this whole set-up is so deliciously ironic; and you never thought that the proud, pureblooded dickhead would be sensible, or reasonable, let alone _humble_.

(Frankly, you didn't expect he'd end up with Harry, either, although, in restrospect, you should have seen that coming for miles.)

They walk out of your home, and out of your life, and you're anything but sorry to see them go.

You cast a strong locking charm on the door, and then another one, just for good measure.

Tom sits up again. 

(You let out a deep breath, and thank any gods that might be listening. You know he'll be fine now. _Just fine_. You both will.)

You move closer and wrap your arms around him.

It all makes sense to you now. 

Draco turning his back on his father, and their questionable Cause. 

Malfoy Senior using regressional magic on Tom, in an attempt to become the new Dark Lord, himself. 

And finally, the whole thing backfiring on everyone, as these supposedly brilliant plans often do.

(Cunning in conception, but poor in execution, and then everything falls apart like a house of cards, like it did that February.)

Of course, you're not sure if that's what _really_ happened. 

You can't be.

And you can't bring yourself to ask Tom, either; not again. 

You doubt he even remembers it all.

You're quite sure now that they messed with his memories, as well as the rest of his mind.

(So you're torn between hating them and thanking them for it; because when they made him weak, they also made him human; and if they hadn't, he'd still be a monster, a heartless, ruthless Dark Lord; and he wouldn't be _yours_. And then you wonder how evil it makes _you_, to even look at things from this angle.)

You feel his hand on your cheek, wiping away your tears.

(You were crying?)

"Was that Harry Potter?" he asks.

"Yes," you say. "But he's gone now."

You realize you may never know the full truth, about him, or about the war, but you don't think it matters.

(Hermione Granger no longer needs all the answers. All she needs is right here.)

"You saved me," he says softly.

"No," you whisper back. "We saved each other."

Outside, the first snow starts to fall.


End file.
